


"Weaponized" - Deleted Scene

by alisvolatpropiis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Comforting Derek, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deleted Scenes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e07 Weaponized, Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers, Traumatized Stiles, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn’t exactly sure how long he’s been sitting on the floor of his bedroom in the dark leaning against his bed, halfway undressed, throat raw, staring vacantly at the chaotic mess of red string, scribbled notes, and photos on his investigation board, not really seeing any of it.</p><p>A long time, he thinks, he knows, but he still can’t get himself to move, to finish changing into his pajamas, to crawl up into the bed and go to sleep, even though he’s exhausted.</p><p>Getting exposed to a supernaturally-jacked up distemper virus and nearly losing more of your friends will do that to you.</p><p>Looking down the barrel of a gun and into the eyes of a madman who’s about to kill you because you’re the only thing between him and your friends will, apparently, make you collapse onto the floor, borrowed t-shirt twisted around your wrists, practically catatonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Weaponized" - Deleted Scene

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on Tumblr a few days ago for the [Sterek Writers Network](http://sterekwriters.tumblr.com/) Season 4 Rewrite. Each writer was randomly assigned a season 4 episode to reimagine and Sterek-up in any way they like. I wrote this deleted scene for episode 7, "Weaponized." Enjoy!!
> 
> Warning: Stiles experiences panic-attack-like symptoms, but not a full panic attack. 
> 
> Spoilers for Season 4.

Stiles isn’t exactly sure how long he’s been sitting on the floor of his bedroom in the dark leaning against his bed, halfway undressed, throat raw, staring vacantly at the chaotic mess of red string, scribbled notes, and photos on his investigation board, not really seeing any of it.

A long time, he thinks, he knows, but he still can’t get himself to move, to finish changing into his pajamas, to crawl up into the bed and go to sleep, even though he’s exhausted.

Getting exposed to a supernaturally-jacked up distemper virus and nearly losing more of your friends will do that to you.

Looking down the barrel of a gun and into the eyes of a madman who’s about to kill you because you’re the only thing between him and your friends will, apparently, make you collapse onto the floor, borrowed t-shirt twisted around your wrists, practically catatonic.

Or maybe it was the press of steel against his forehead, the echo of the deafening gunshot, the hot spray of blood on his face, the way it stung like a thousand burning needles in his skin, the sickening sensation jolting him from his shock, making him realize that no, he wasn’t the one shot, he wasn’t dead.

Or maybe the reason Stiles has been locked in a daze, vision blurred, staring at the sense he’s been trying to make of their deeply, deeply fucked up lives but not really seeing it, is because, in that too-long second between squeezing his eyes shut and realizing he wasn’t dead, he had felt terror, yes.

But he had also felt relief that it was all finally going to be over for him.

The feeling vanished by the time Scott’s dad told him the cure was in the vault, and then all he felt was fear and rage at not being able to get to Scott and Kira and Malia, voice going hoarse from screaming, hands bruising where he slammed them against the impenetrable steel of the vault door.

But they made it, they had survived, mostly unscathed, which is really all they can ask for at this point. Malia hated him, was probably getting her head twisted by Peter at this very moment, but Stiles can’t really bring himself to think about that right now, doesn’t want to think of anything.

He can’t think of anything but that part of himself that welcomed his death, even for a moment.

He should sleep. But when he sleeps, he dreams; dark, cold dreams that crawl with the lurking shadows of the Nogitsune, that echo with Lydia’s scream for Allison, that haunt him with the pained look of shock and betrayal in Scott’s eyes when the demon inside of him twisted the blade in his chest and smiled, voracious, pleased. 

"Jesus, Stiles. You’re freezing."

There’s heat on his skin again, not the sticky-sweet heat of blood and brain matter, but a gentle warmth, soft hands. It takes his eyes a minute to focus, to pull himself from the dark chasm within he’s been teetering over.

The lamp next to his bed is on now, casting yellow-tinged light across Derek’s face. Derek, who’s crouched in front of him, hands on his forearms. “Derek?” Stiles whispers, finally focusing, taking in the deep furrow that brings his thick eyebrows together, at how bright and glittering his green-gold eyes are, even in the dim light.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

“When did you get here? How did you get in? Did you come in the window?” Stiles finds the look of worry on Derek’s face very confusing, so he looks down to where Derek’s still lightly holding onto his arms, thumb of one hand brushing feather-light circles around the pointy bone of his wrist, absently almost, and Stiles wonders if he’s even aware he’s doing it. That’s confusing too, so he scrambles backwards, pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I haven’t crawled in your window since I was a fugitive,” Derek answers, standing.

It’s strange, how it helps calm him, Derek bickering with him. Derek walks over to rummage through his dresser, and Stiles is so vividly reminded of that day not that long ago when he forced Derek to strip and try on his clothes, and the way he tried so hard to focus on Danny’s discomfort rather than the weird, new jealousy he felt seeing the other boy’s obvious attraction to Derek.

Their problems from that day seem small, almost quaint, in comparison to what they’re dealing with now, what they’ve dealt with since.

Or in Stiles’ case, _not_ dealt with, but whatever. He’s getting…better?

“I knocked and rang the bell, but there was no answer,” Derek explains. “I could tell you were here alone, and the front door was unlocked.”

Stiles never leaves the front door unlocked. It’s not like it really matters, because really, who or whatever decides to come into his home to kill him likely wont be the kind of intruder who’ll be stopped by something as useless and quotidian and unbearably human as a lock. But he’s spent a lot of nights at home alone, his dad often working late shifts or dealing with crises like he is now with the aftermath of the shitshow at the school, and Stiles has always taken a too-simple, too-safe comfort in the heavy thud of the deadbolt.

He must have been so out of it when he finally got home that he forgot. Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember driving home at all, doesn’t remember anything after his furious, frantic shower in the locker room, desperate to get the blood off his face.

“It’s been a rough night,” he says lamely, taking the dark, long-sleeved shirt Derek hands him, pulling it on quickly, realizing suddenly that he’s shirtless in front of him and the last thing he needs right now is for his fragile ego to crumble even further.

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” Derek turns the desk chair to face him and sits down, rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, eyes kind and warm. It’s been awhile since he and Derek have been alone, since they’ve spent any time together really, other than his stint babysitting teen wolf Derek.

He’s missed him.

Derek’s rough edges seem less…rough somehow, and it’s not just the softer, looser clothes he’s taken to wearing or the cozy-looking patch of new chest hair peeking out from the deep V of his dark purple shirt. His whole demeanor has softened recently, since his sojourn back to teendom at the hands of Kate fucking Argent.

But really, Derek’s seemed different to him, towards him, ever since Stiles came back to himself (mostly) after the Nogitsune; he’s been gentler, not pitying, but understanding, and more than once Stiles has gotten the impression that Derek is actually grateful that Stiles survived his possession, something he sees in the amused, possibly even affectionate glances he gives when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking.

But Stiles is always looking.

“You came to check on me?”

“Scott told me what happened. He said you seemed fine when you left the school, but I wanted to make sure.”

Stiles laughs, and it sounds bitter, even though he doesn’t mean it to be. “Remember that time you smashed my face into the steering wheel?”

Derek has the grace to look abashed, even as he smirks a bit at the memory. “You deserved it,” he teases. “You were objectifying me.”

“Danny was objectifying you. I just…pointed him in the direction of an object.” It sounds like a confession of some kind, weird and rude as it is. Stiles’ cheeks grow hot. He wants to look away from Derek but he can’t, has never been able to.

 _Do you?_ Caitlin’s voice rings in his head.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, serious again.  

“I don’t think so,” he admits, and it feels good, answering that question honestly for once.

~*~

“You got shot?” Stiles yells when Derek finally admits why he’s clutching at his side awkwardly. “Why hasn’t it healed?”

He sighs heavily, shoulders tense. “I’m not sure, but I think…I’m losing my power. Becoming human, maybe.” He says it so casually, so evenly, like he’s accepted it, that it takes a moment for Stiles to be alarmed, to realize what he’s actually saying, unable to fathom a world where Derek isn’t a werewolf.

Isn’t nearly invincible, despite all the beatings he takes and always manages to survive.

“Because of what Kate did?”

“Yes. But we don’t need to talk about that now.” He’s not as gruff as he used to be, but he’s still intimidating as hell when he wants to be. Stiles knows him well enough to know that he should back off, is too tired to press him on it anyways. It’s another crisis they’ll add to the board tomorrow.

Derek’s nostrils twitch, eyebrows darting closer together.

“What?” Stiles demands.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Derek. You’re a terrible liar.”

“I don’t want to further upset you, and I don’t know for sure because my senses are so weak right now, but I think I can still smell the blood. The chemist’s blood.”

Stiles’ stomach snarls so hard and his breath catches so fast he sees spots, Derek going blurry. “Fuck,” he chokes out, chest aching, breath feeling short.

“Stiles, shit, I’m sorry, Stiles, look at me,” Derek’s crouching in front of him again, hands clutching at his. It anchors him, helps steady his breathing. So does focusing on Derek’s eyes, bigger than he’s ever seen them, wide with worry. “Breathe,” he says, voice shaking a bit, like he’s the one trying to stay calm.

“Derek,” he whispers, skin crawling. “Shower,” he manages to choke out. “I need to take another shower.”

Derek nods quickly and stands, pulling him up so they’re standing close, too close, it seems, because he steps back quickly, cheeks pinking, fingers lingering on Stiles’ hands. He looks hesitant to let go, like Stiles is going to fissure and crack if he does.

Stiles tries to roll his eyes when he steps away, but he stumbles, tripping over his own feet in his exhaustion, but Derek’s there, catching him, letting him clutch at his bicep while he settles himself, swallowing, trying not to sway too hard. “Let me help you,” Derek murmurs, so soft and sweet that Stiles does.

  **~*~**

Derek doesn’t say anything when he sees how bad Stiles’ hands are shaking by the time they get to the bathroom, just makes him stand aside while he slides the shower door open and turns on the water.

Stiles can’t stop thinking about Derek smelling the blood on him, about the blood still _on him_ , even though he can’t see it, about it leaving its stinging, burning traces on his skin. He yanks his shirt off, weirdness about being shirtless in front of Derek all gone now, self-consciousness drowned out completely by his need to get clean. He gets his pants off too, and Derek doesn’t look bothered at all by his nudity.

His hand is firm on his elbow as he helps Stiles into the tub, sliding the frosted glass door closed behind him. “I’ll be right outside the door,” he says, raising his voice so Stiles can hear him over the rush of still-lukewarm water.

“No,” he blurts out, sputtering, closing his eyes, glad Derek can’t see him. “I don’t…I don’t want to be alone,” he admits, feeling a little better saying it out loud, finally.

Derek doesn’t say anything, but Stiles watches his blurred shape through the glass step back from the door and lean against the wall opposite the sink, sliding down to sit on the floor. “I’ll be right here.”

**~*~  
**

Stiles stays in the shower until all of the hot water is gone, until his face and neck are rubbed red and raw from his slow, careful scrubbing with a washcloth. He sits, knees up and back curved, echoing Derek’s posture. Neither of them speak the whole time he lets the nearly-scalding water pound over his face and shoulders, but that’s okay. Stiles feels better just knowing he’s there, seeing him on the other side of the glass.

He turns off the water when he starts to shiver, and Derek’s right there with a towel, carefully studying his face as he helps him out of the tub. Stiles feels cleaner, less like his skin is on fire, but it’s still hard to focus, hard to keep steady, limbs heavy with exhaustion.

Derek looks away discreetly when they’re back in his room, Stiles putting on the flannel pajama pants and t-shirt he was trying to change into who knows how long ago now.

“You should sleep,” Derek says, turning back to look at him once he’s dressed.

“I should,” Stiles answers sounding resigned, pulling back the blankets.

“Do you still have the dreams?”

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugs. “They’re not as bad…when I’m not alone.”

“I’ll stay if you want me to.”

**~*~**

It’s strange, sharing his bed with Derek, mostly because it’s not strange. Maybe it’s because he’s so tired or maybe because after all this time he and Derek are finally at a place where they’re both ready to acknowledge just how much they understand each other, but when Derek lies down facing him, eyes on his in the dark, Stiles is calm, more relaxed than he can remember feeling in a long time.

It feels right, to linger towards sleep next to Derek. “Thank you,” he whispers, closing his eyes against the sudden rush of affection he feels for him, has always felt for him. He’s not sure why his eyes go hot at that moment, but they do, he can’t help it, tears spilling over when he opens them again.

His heart starts to race when Derek scoots closer, reaching up to thumb away the tear dripping down his cheek before tracing over his eyebrows with his fingertips, following the curve of his cheek down to his chin and jaw, exploratory and reverent like touching Stiles’ face is some kind of privilege, some kind of honor, eyes darting around to follow the path of his fingers, both stopping on his mouth, thumb brushing gently across his bottom lip.

Derek’s mouth is soft and hot against his, the kiss tender, a gesture of comfort and affection that warms Stiles up from the inside out even as it sets his tired mind racing with surprise and relief and joy and confusion.

“Sleep now,” Derek orders, small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Stiles obeys, rolling over to his other side, nestling back against Derek’s broad chest, grasping on to his wrist when he places his arm tentatively on his hip, pulling it up and tugging him closer, curling his shoulders around their clasped hands.

He’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to ponder what just happened, what’s still happening. Now though, now he’s got Derek in his bed, and the ghost of his kiss on his lips, his stubbly chin sharp-but-soft against his neck, and he’s warm and strong and big, curved around him like a protective shell, and he knows he’ll finally get some sleep tonight because he’s finally, truly, not alone.

“Derek,” he murmurs, on the edge of sleep, mind still hazy.

“Yes?”

“I’m tired of watching people die.” He’s said that to lots of people before, but it feels even more desperate now, maybe because of what happened today, maybe because he’s telling Derek.

A soft sigh, warm breathe dancing against the back of his neck. “Me too.”

“Derek?”

“Yes?”

“I’m tired of being the reason people die.” He’s never told anyone that before.

“Me too.”

A strong arm, pulling him closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I wish I could actually write for this show. 
> 
> Come say hello on [Tumblr]()


End file.
